Sons and Daughters
by little.acatalepsy
Summary: One-shot series focusing parent/child relationships between characters in Harry Potter. Dedicated to all mums and dads, godmothers and godfathers, teachers and mentors. These stories will take place in Marauder-era, Hogwarts, and Next-Gen, as well as anytime in between.
1. Molly and Ron

Hi all,

I'm starting this fic in honor of Mother's Day (today), but I will continue to update it periodically. I have a lot of ideas, but new chapters will depend on when I have time to write them down ( _Before We Fall_ is getting most of my attention right now). This is just a good way to keep my creative juices flowing :). I am also open to suggestions if you have them.

-Cat

Note on Characters: The characters listed are just a sample of the ones I hope to feature in this series. Honestly, they're just there to make this story a little easier to find.

 _ **If some of the characters aren't your thing:** _ Check the chapter headings and navigate yourself to a pair you'd like to read :). I tend to love all HP characters, but I get that some people have their preferences.

Warnings: Not much. Some swear words might work their way in here. But I'm not expecting any violence to happen in these stories.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

 _I - Remember When_

(Molly W. and Ron W.)

 _Post-Battle of the Department of Mysteries, 1996_

The hospital wing was never precisely quiet. It was too big a space, too empty. The vaulted stone ceilings magnified every breath, every rustle, every whisper. Molly supposed that this could be comforting to some. But to her, it seemed to be magnifying even her worry. It had always done so. Her children would tease her mercilessly if they knew. She squeezed the limp hand on the bed a little tighter. They would also be secretly grateful that someone cared that much.

She hoped Harry knew. And she hoped that knowledge brought him comfort. He was different than her boys. Perhaps it was the way he was raised; the child was not used to people worrying about him. It put him on edge, which was hard for Molly to understand. _Harry…_ She and Sirius Black had never seen eye to eye, but Harry had loved him. Molly's heart broke a little for the son she'd adopted as her own. But right now, her son's best friend was out of her hands.

All she could do this night was be with her two youngest. A vigil for her little wounded warriors.

She glanced away from the bed where she sat to check on her daughter. In the opposite bed, Ginny was curled on her side and sleeping deeply. Madame Pomfrey had given her a small dose of dreamless sleep potion while her ankle healed overnight. It was a bad break, but she would be good as new in the morning.

Relieved to see the peaceful expression on Ginny's face, Molly turned back to her son. She stroked Ronald's hair. His arms were pale on the bed sheets. Molly almost wished she could tuck them away, but then she would not be able to hold his hand. So she was faced with the ropey red welts that wrapped tightly around his biceps, forearms, wrists. _Oh Ronnie_ …

He had always thought of himself as a little less than his older brothers. Inadequate. He was not very smart, or physically strong, or ambitious, or funny. But he was a loyal friend. And this made him incredibly brave, Molly knew. She wished he would listen when she told him.

" _Thoughts leave deeper scars than almost anything else."_

Madame Pomfrey's words were wise, but frightening. She could not shelter her children from bad thoughts. The ones that cut and stabbed and lingered as an infection in the veins. An infection in the heart. And Ron was so sensitive to them. They piled on him: the feelings of not being enough, the poverty, being easily overlooked.

And yet he did not even hesitate to follow Harry into the Department of Mysteries.

"Remember the time…" Her low voice spun up into the hospital wing ceiling. "It was the night after your eleventh birthday. It was raining, the first rain since winter. You came into the kitchen, nearly crying. You were so upset." She smiled gently at Ron's pale face. "You were afraid you wouldn't be sorted into Gryffindor. I made you a cup of tea and told you stories of the times that you were really brave. Like when you shouted at Fred and George for teasing Ginny. Or when you got lost in Diagon Alley and didn't even cry. How you always stood up for what you thought was right, even when no one agreed with you."

In the broad moonbeam that fell over his bed, Molly could count every freckle. "When we went to bed your were smiling again," she whispered. "Look at how much you've grown, Ronnie. So brave, you scare me half to death. A true Gryffindor."

Molly realized something then. Despite his susceptibility, Ron knew the secret to healing bad thoughts, profoundly within himself. It was not a conscious knowledge, but it was there, ingrained into his being. The cure was in relationships, in friendships so strong he would face Death Eaters to defend them. She brushed the wounds that the strangling thoughts had left on his arms. He would even face his own soul, the flaws and fears and hurts. The human errors.

"You are so special, Ronald," she murmured.

Ron's hand twitched in hers and Molly straightened. Blearily, he opened his blue eyes and blinked in the bright silvery moonlight.

"Ron?" Molly said, a little louder.

"Mum?" he groaned back. He squeezed his eyes shut again. "Ow."

"What hurts Ronnie?"

"Head," he mumbled. Then a shockwave of energy seemed to jolt through his body. His eyes shot open and pushed himself onto his elbows. "Harry! Hermione! _Ginny_! There were bloody Death Eaters- _bloody hell_ -I've got to-"

"Ronald!" Molly said firmly, not because he swore, but because he was frantically trying to get out of bed. She tried to push him back.

"Mum, gerroff!"

"They're fine, Ron!"

He froze.

"Huh? They're okay?"

"Lay back down," she commanded. Dumbly, Ron slumped against his pillows. Molly pulled the sheets back over his long legs and straightened them

"Now don't move," she said firmly. "Hermione will have to stay at St. Mungo's-"

"What?!"

"-but she will _recover,_ " Molly finished. "You'll wake everyone in the hospital wing if you're not careful."

"I don't bloody care-"

"You should because your little sister is sleeping." She glared him into silence. His eyes flickered to the other bed and landed on the fan of bright red hair. He relaxed a little.

"She broke her ankle, but Madame Pomfrey's potions are putting it right. She's just here for observation. Neville and Luna have both already been discharged from the hospital wing. And Harry…" she trailed away. Harry's injuries were not physical, but they were very real.

"And Harry?" Ron demanded, in a quieter voice this time.

"Sirius is dead."

What little color left in Ron's face drained away. "What happened?" he asked softly.

Molly explained what she could, a pieced together version of events as told by the students and the order members. Ron was uncharacteristically solemn and listened nearly without comment. When Molly told Ron that the vision Harry had was faked, Ron buried his face in his hands.

"He's going to blame himself." His voice was muffled, but distinct. "Why did Voldemort want him there in the first place?"

"You'll have to ask Harry," Molly replied.

Ron nodded glumly and dropped his hands into his lap. The red welts stood out darkly against the sheets and skin, but Ron barely noticed.

"Sirius was like a father to him… I can't believe he's gone," he whispered. He was silent then, allowing himself some private grief.

Molly could think of no words that were enough to comfort her youngest son. After a long while, she said, "Madame Pomfrey would want to know that you're awake."

"Okay," Ron responded listlessly. But as Molly stood, he said, "Mum?"

"Yes dear?"

"You and dad will watch out for him, yeah?"

Molly did not need to ask who Ron was talking about. Salty tears stung her eyes and she blinked hard to keep them from falling.

"Of course, Ronald." She leaned down and kissed his mussed hair. "I am so proud of you," she murmured.

A pink flush crept up his neck. But he said nothing more. Somehow, the not-silence of the hospital wing no longer bothered Molly. Ron was not okay, but he would be. His scars would heal. And the vaulted emptiness was filled.

* * *

 _To my mom, who taught me to love without a thought of the cost._


	2. Minerva and Sirius

Hi there readers! I've always loved the Marauders from the beginning of my foray into reading fanfiction. So obviously, they will pop up in this fic. A note on this oneshot: It's four parts spanning Sirius' first year, fifth year, and sixth year at Hogwarts and how McGonagall's perspective changes. Let me know what you think!

-Cat

* * *

 _II - Snakeskin, Lionheart_

(Minerva M. and Sirius B.)

 _Marauder Era, 1971-1976_

She had never expected the Headmaster to say the words, "I want to accept a werewolf into Hogwarts this year." Minerva was stunned into silence, so the Headmaster went on. "He is, as I understand it, a bright young man. He deserves a chance."

"Okay." She hoped her expression was neutral. "What arrangements are we going to put into place?"

Through the whole conversation, she offered no argument. Because she believed that every person should be judged fairly. Students deserved someone who could believe in them. And she could not break that, even if said student was affected by lycanthropy.

Nonetheless, Minerva prepared for her code to be tested the year Remus Lupin came to Hogwarts. What surprised her was that Lupin would not be the one who tested her resolve not to judge. It would be the young boy who was striding straight-backed to the stool in front of the entire Great Hall. Black, Sirius. The heir of the ancient wizarding family. Of course, he would be a Slytherin.

He grinned brightly at her and sat on the stool. Before the hat slipped over his eyes, Minerva saw him wink at someone in the crowd of nervously shuffling first years. The hat deliberated. Within thirty seconds, it had a house chosen-

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Black boy whipped off the hat and handed it back to Minerva, beaming. The smattering applause from the students was perfunctory, coming mostly from muggle-born students. The Slytherin table glowered. An unsorted first year boy whooped with glee. He was easy to spot, messy dark hair flopping all over the place, glasses crooked. A Potter for sure.

As for Minerva, she kept her face blank. Every person deserved a chance. Especially the ones in her own house.

By the end of the night, she had several new charges besides the Black heir, including the pale young werewolf. This was going to be an interesting seven years.

* * *

"Black! Potter!"

Minerva's sharp voice rang out across the Great Hall, not for the first time. Black had wasted no time in proving that he was the misfit of the family. The boy was a whirlwind of energy who defied authority and hated anything having to do with Slytherin or pureblood mania. He had struck up an immediate friendship with his dorm-mates and earned the admiration from his peers. But Minerva had definite reservations. He was careless, disrespectful, emotionally charged, and laughed at the detriment of others. Which was why he was in trouble now.

Minerva stormed down from the head table. The two boys were trying and failing not to giggle. Black was very red in the face and Potter looked like he might be choking. Next to them, Peter Pettigrew was wide-eyed and pale at being caught. Remus Lupin looked impressively innocent, eating his cereal, a transfiguration book propped against his tea. But Minerva knew better by now. These four would be the end of her sanity for sure. _And it's only spring of their first year…_

"Explain," she instructed coldly when she reached them.

"Well Minnie-" Black began. Potter snorted.

"Mr. Black," Minerva warned.

"My apologies. Minerva, you seem to have misinterpreted an act of mercy as something untoward. I assure you, our intentions are pure."

Lupin nearly lost his composure at this. But the only hint was a twitch of his eyebrow.

"There is nothing pure about your intentions, Mr. Black," Minerva said stiffly.

"Why, Professor, what on earth are you implying?" he exclaimed dramatically. There was a tittering throughout the Great Hall, but as Minerva glared around, it stopped abruptly. She exhaled sharply through her nostrils. _Hopeless…_

"Your prank was cruel and undeserved. Detention tonight, all four of you." Lupin sighed in resignation.

"But he looks so much better without his hair!"

"I'm sure Mr. Snape would disagree with you, Mr. Black. As for the rest of Slytherin house-"

"Their hair will return to their natural colors around noon," Lupin informed her.

Minerva sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. It was an impressive charm for first years, especially if it was timed. But she had learned to expect quite a lot from her boys. _My boys?_ Shaking her head, she said, "I will tell you the time and location of your _individual_ detentions in class today."

The rest of the day passed uneventfully enough for Hogwarts. Minerva taught her classes, dispelled three arguments, gave out two more detentions, deducted house points, added house points, praised a student for finally transfiguring a mouse into a matchbox...in the end, it was a blur. When there was a firm knock on her office door that evening, she had already forgotten about the detentions she handed out to the Gryffindor first years.

"Come in," she said without looking up from her grading. The door swung open.

"Good evening, Minnie."

She closed her eyes. Right. She checked a clock sitting on her desk.

"Mr. Black, I've been expecting you. You're five minutes late."

"Yeah," he replied without offering an explanation. He lounged in the chair across from her. "What am I doing? Lines?"

"No, Mr. Black, you'll be cleaning the cages."

"What?" His aura of aloofness faded into confusion.

She stood and lead him to a door off her office. The room was quite large and lined with windows. Rows of cages held mice, hedgehogs, guinea pigs, rabbits, various reptiles, and several species of birds. All were subjects of her transfiguration lessons.

"Whoa," Black breathed, seeming more awed than intimidated. She was beginning to feel apprehensive about setting the boy loose among her animals.

"Just the mice and the hedgehogs, Mr. Black. You may not use magic, as it tends to make them nervous."

"Okay." He immediately set his wand against the wall on the floor and rolled up his sleeves. There was no mischievous glint in his eyes, but Minerva was still rather suspicious. When she left, she kept the door open just in case.

Doing her best to focus on her work, she reshuffled the stack of pages on her desk and dipped her quill into scarlet ink. Her fifth year essays were comparing and contrasting the anatomy of a reptile versus a mammal and why it affects transfiguration spells. She read through them, making frustrated red marks. So far, only a few had given an acceptable explanation.

After about twenty minutes, her ears tuned into the background noise and heard Black's voice emanating from the room of creatures. This was odd. Even odder, instead of being very loud and brash, it was a gentle tone of conversation. She could not hear what he was saying, but it made her pause. With a small smile, Minerva realized that he was speaking to the mice as he cleaned their bedding. This was a side of Black she had never had the privilege to see (or hear). It nearly paradoxical compared to the bold, cheeky Black she knew. And yet, it fit.

Minerva found herself wondering, once again, how he had come from that family. She recalled with ringing clarity the howler Sirius received the day after the sorting. The boy currently chatting with her creatures next door was nothing like that raving woman. How had he escaped being ruined by her?

He was resilient. It was the only explanation. A boy whose character could not be crushed. For the first time, Minerva was very proud to have him amongst her Gryffindors.

She returned to making red marks across Gilderoy Lockhart's essay, strangely eased by Sirius' soft discussion with the little creatures. _Perhaps not as hopeless as she thought._ He was done in an hour and emerged, brushing sawdust from his robes and pocketing his wand.

"You've got a really grumpy hedgehog in cage three. I feel sorry for the poor sod that has to deal with him," he said with a wide grin. "That all Minnie?"

She felt a flash of irritation at the nickname, but it was not as strong as before.

"Yes Mr. Black. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Professor."

* * *

"Mr. Black? Your detention is not until tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know. I thought I'd just… get a head start I guess…"

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the room of creatures. Minerva delivered him a scrutinizing stare, which he avoided. He'd grown very tall, she realized. Her boys were all growing like weeds, nothing like the scrawny first years they used to be. And since then Sirius had become more boisterous, more antagonistic to the teachers, more outspoken, and very closely bonded to his friends. But he had not been himself since the fateful night two weeks ago. His recklessness had cost him. His proud shoulders were hunched, his hands were buried deep in his pockets.

She thought back to the detention years ago when she saw a side of Sirius she did not expect. It was the night she changed her mind about him. Then she remembered sitting in Dumbledore's office and listening to Sirius' confession. She had never been so disappointed.

"Why are you here, Mr. Black?"

He shrugged. "Nowhere to go," he mumbled. Minerva gave him another critical scan. He was pale and his usually well-kept hair was limp. Yes, he had disappointed her. But she was his teacher and Head of House. Which meant she also held the roles of parent, advisor, counselor, and consoler to each of her students. She fought the desire to curl into a ball and sleep for ages. Sometimes, this job took everything she had.

"Have a biscuit," she said briskly. This stunned him into looking at her. His dull blue eyes showed utter confusion.

"Huh?"

"Have a biscuit," she repeated, holding out the tin of ginger newts. Tentatively, he stepped all the way into her office. He took the smallest one. She gestured for him to sit, and he did. Then she waited without speaking. He squirmed in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. It was amusing how quickly silence could pressure adolescents into bursting.

"What I did was… really bad," he finally said, staring at his uneaten ginger newt. Still, Minerva said nothing. "I just… I was so angry and I lost control. I shouldn't have let him get to me. But what he was saying about Reg-" He cut himself off. Minerva was curious, but he moved on. "I betrayed Remus' trust."

That had been a shocking revelation, that he had known of Lupin's condition since second year. And yet not shocking at all. She had seen how sensitive the Gryffindor boys were to Remus' pre-moon illness, how they supported him and tended to him, how they split taking notes in their classes without complaining.

"What if he never speaks to me again?" Sirius asked.

It was time to answer. "He will," she reassured gently. "Remus Lupin will forgive you. He just needs time."

"I almost got him killed," Sirius growled, self-loathing seeping through his words. The ginger newt was crumbling in his grip. "I'm just as bad as the rest of them."

"The rest of who?"

"My bloody inbred family."

"You are nothing like them, Sirius," Minerva said firmly. The frenetic energy that was vibrating through the teenager's body drained, leaving him battered.

"How do you know?" he whispered.

"Because you are sorry. It's painful, certainly, but at least you feel it."

Sirius considered this for a long time. So long that Minerva went back to reading first year essays on match-to-needle transfiguration and correcting their grammar mistakes. After a while, he popped the ginger newt into his mouth. Minerva felt a small leap of triumph in her chest. He needed to eat. He had not been coming to meals lately. He stood and pushed the chair back into its original position.

"I guess I'll come back and start on those cages tomorrow."

"Actually, there's still a few birds that are stuck as half a goblet, if you don't mind fixing that for me before you leave, Mr. Black."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Okay." He went to the door into the creature room and paused.

"Why do you always seem to think that I'm capable of better than what I do?"

The question startled Minerva. She looked at her young charge, who was watching her with genuine curiosity. It was sobering.

"Because I believe that you are," she responded.

Sirius raised a dubious eyebrow.

"Some might call me reckless, but I _am_ a Gryffindor, Mr. Black," she said sternly. "I prefer to be called hopeful."

Sirius barked a soft laugh then disappeared through the doorway.

A week later, the Marauders were together again, laughing and playing pranks on the Slytherins. It was strangely a relief after the three week silence. When the Slytherin table lifted off the ground, carrying their food far out of reach, Minerva actually enjoyed storming to the Gryffindor table. She handed out their detentions with the proper amount of scolding. If anyone noticed her wink at Sirius as she turned back to the head table, she would have denied it.

* * *

 _12 July, 1976_

 _Dear Minerva,_

 _I'm writing to let you know about a development of which I feel you should be aware as Sirius Black's Head of House-_

Minerva stopped and re-read the name. Then she double-checked the signature. Why was Euphemia Potter writing to her about Sirius?

 _Sirius has permanently moved in with Fleamont and I. He ran away from home a week ago and turned up on our doorstep. When he arrived he was white and shaking and barely said two words before collapsing in our living room. He refuses to tell us what happened, but I am not sending him back to that house (I think James knows the details, but he will take Sirius' secrets to his grave)._

 _He's recovered and acts like his normal self, but I can't help but worry about him. When he comes back for the next term, keep an eye on him for us. He's basically been our son for years anyway, it's about time we claimed him as our own. You can send his booklist to our residence from now on._

 _Hope that you are well and enjoying your summer._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Euphemia Potter_

Minerva dwelled on the letter for the rest of the summer. Without students to distract her, all she had was her private research into the atomic and molecular scale changes in transfigured objects. Her thoughts wandered too easily to the content of the letter. It lay on her desk, limp in the heat. To think that once she believed Sirius would conform to his role as heir to the Noble and Moste Anciente House of Black. Should she have noticed something sooner? Should she have been more concerned? _Too late now, Minerva. What's done is done._

There were other things to worry about as well. Voldemort's actions against the ministry were escalating. Minister Minchum was rolling out new campaigns and programs against Voldemort and his followers. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had a new head, Bartemius Crouch, whose tended to curse first, ask questions later. Muggle-baiting increased, witches and wizards were disappearing, people were getting hurt.

The mood at the Opening Feast was subdued on September 1st. A fourth year Hufflepuff's muggle parents had been murdered the week before. She was not at the feast and the students under the yellow and black banner were pale-faced. Minerva scanned her Gryffindors as the Sorting Hat began to sing.

Sirius sat in his usual place between James and Remus. He seemed healthier than he usually did at the beginning of the year. He was speaking to Remus with a grave expression, but there was color in cheeks and his shoulders were relaxed. Satisfied that Sirius appeared to have thrived in his new circumstances, Minerva proceeded with the sorting ceremony.

The feast went smoothly and no major catastrophes occurred as students were making their noisy exodus. But as it always was with Hogwarts, trouble would brew eventually. Minerva stumbled upon it on her way to her quarters later in the evening. The stones in the walls had a way of carrying the sound of arguments to a teacher's ears. She could hear the tense hush of voices as soon as she reached the third floor. So instead of going straight, she turned left.

The two boys were standing nose to nose, deep in a hissed discussion. Minerva recognized the idential heads of dark hair and aristocratic profiles. Sirius and Regulus.

"-she burned you off the tapestry, Sirius! Why can't you just-"

"Just what? Bow to them like you do?"

"Siri-"

"No! Do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into? Look at Elsie's family! Merlin, Reg, can't you see this is wrong?"

Regulus twitched as if Sirius' statement was an irksome fly. "You left us Sirius," he said, ignoring the question. "Does loyalty count for nothing? Have you no pride?"

"Ha!" Sirius' bark of laughter was harsh. "They can't make me like them. You call prejudice pride? Don't be an idiot Reg."

"At least I'm not a blood-traitor," Regulus whispered angrily. "You deserved what you got-"

Minerva had had enough. She cleared her throat and the brothers jumped apart.

"You should both be in your dormitories," she said sternly. "Five points each from Gryffindor and Slytherin. Regulus, I'll have a word with your head of house tomorrow. You can continue this conversation with your brother later."

"He's not my brother," Regulus said coldly. He spun on his heel and strode away. Sirius watched him go, looking stunned and hurt. But as soon as he noticed Minerva's gaze, he schooled a blank mask over his features.

"Goodnight, Professor," he said without expression. He made to brush past her, but she put a hand on his shoulder.

"Family does not always mean blood, Mr. Black," she murmured.

He nodded stiffly but did not speak, his face white.

"You did a courageous thing this summer," she continued gently. She did not know the full story, but she understood enough.

"I ran away like a coward," he spat.

"You stood up for what you think is right," she corrected.

He shrugged and started down the corridor again.

"You're not alone, Sirius," she called after him. "Your real brothers are waiting for you in the dormitory. You will need to keep them close in days to come."

"Yeah." He kicked at imaginary dust on the stone floor.

"If you ever need to talk…" She let the offer hang in the air. He said nothing, so she sighed and turned in the direction of her quarters.

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks. For believing I'm good enough. It made me stronger."

He turned and walked away swiftly before she could respond. Minerva stood like a statue in the torchlight for a long time afterwards.

* * *

 _To my college advisor, who gave me a chance._


	3. Harry and Teddy

For those of you who don't know this, today (3/29/17) is Memorial Day in the United States, which is the day we remember everyone who fell in service to our country. No matter the state of our political affairs, it's important that we don't forget that this day honors them first and foremost. If you don't live in the U.S., your country most likely also has ways to honor your fallen troops. Even if that day is not today for you, this piece is written with that important tradition in mind.

* * *

 _III - The Ones We Love_

(Harry P. and Teddy L.)

 _May 2, 2011_

"I hate him! I hate both of them!"

The door slammed. Harry exhaled loudly, pushing down his rising temper. He was not altogether surprised by Teddy's outburst. In fact, he had been expecting something like this for a long time. Harry had never been angry at his parents for dying, but Teddy had different circumstances.

He had to admit, though, that his godson's timing had not been ideal. He scratched the back of his neck and surveyed the faces of those around him, expressing various levels of shock, disappointment, or sympathy.

"I'll go after him," Andromeda sighed. She started to get up from the table, but Harry waved a hand.

"I'll do it," he said wearily. "Let's give him a few minutes to cool off. He'll be fine outside, there's only a few places he can go. Everyone, go back to your meal."

The Weasleys restarted their conversations, now a little more subdued. Harry found that he preferred it to the false cheeriness before Teddy started yelling. At least they were not pretending everything was okay, today of all days.

The gathering had become a tradition thirteen years ago, on the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the Second Wizarding War. Back then, when the wounds they had were still raw, the invitations to celebrations seemed more like prison sentences. It was Ron's idea to have a private gathering instead, something they could cite as a reason for not attending the larger celebrations. Harry would be eternally grateful for this suggestion. So every year, everyone would go to the Burrow, bringing meals and stories and an increasing number of children. Even now, when the oldest were attending Hogwarts, Minerva would give them permission to leave for the evening.

This year, Harry had sensed Teddy's dark mood the moment he arrived at the Burrow. He had turned thirteen a month ago, mature enough to question the decisions of others, especially his parents. In retrospect, Harry probably should not have pushed him to share his feelings in a public space. But at least whatever resentment Teddy was harboring was not growing in secret anymore. _What am I going to say to him?_

He was distracted from his thoughts by Lily climbing into his lap. He put his fork down (which he was only using to push his food around his plate anyway), and helped her get comfortable.

"Hey there, Flower," he said, smoothing the agitation from his voice. "What's up?"

"Jamie keeps bragging about how he gets to go to Hogwarts before me and Albie," she complained. "It's annoying."

"Just ignore him, sweetheart. You're all going at the same age, so technically, he has to wait just as long as you do, even though it seems shorter. I'll have a word with him about bragging though. Not good form. But neither is tattling, Flower."

He gave her a stern look and she smiled tentatively back. Then she frowned at the empty seat at the table.

"Teddy didn't finish his dinner. Do you think he's hungry?" Her chocolate eyes were wide with concern.

"I think he might be," Harry replied. "Why don't you go get his plate and I'll bring it out to him."

"Okay." She grinned brightly and slid of his lap. She wove around the adults and got the plate, an expression of concentration on her face as she balanced it in her small hands. Harry excused himself from the table and met her halfway.

"Make sure he eats his vegetables," she said, her tone resembling Ginny's so much that Harry laughed out loud.

"I'll do that," he chuckled.

Ron mouthed "Good luck" at him as he exited. Once outside, Harry put a warming spell on the food. Overhead, the stars twinkled in the blue velvet sky. It smelled like springtime, a mix of damp earthiness and something floral. The Weasley's garden was just as gnome-infested as ever, and Harry could hear them giggling as he passed. He noticed that the door to the shed was ajar, which gave him a good idea of where he could find his godson. He went out the back gate and struck out across the field towards the spreading branches of an ancient elm. As he walked, he scanned the sky with seeker's eyes. It was not hard to find Teddy's dark silhouette against the stars.

Part of Harry was proud that Teddy had found an appropriate way to blow off steam. At least he was not yelling like his godfather did. Harry was still working on that, despite the fact that he did not get angry nearly as often as he used to. He stood quietly for a few minutes before interrupting Teddy's flying.

"I have your dinner, if you're hungry," he announced. Teddy's hands jerked on the broom handle, but he did not look down. "Whenever you're ready to come down, Teddy. I'll be waiting by the elm tree."

Teddy did not acknowledge him, but flew in a frenetic figure eight. Harry made his way through the grass to the wide bowl of roots of the giant elm tree. He found a particularly large root and sat down, his knees bending a little above his waist. Then he leaned back against the trunk and watched. In the light of the full moon, he could just make out the changing colors of Teddy's hair. It seemed to be flashing between red, black, and navy blue. Finally, it faded to Teddy's natural fawn brown. He guided the borrowed broom to the lowest branch and sat with his feet dangling in their trainers. Just out of Harry's reach. Harry chose not to comment.

"Your parents loved you very much," he said instead, feeling this would be the best way to start.

"If they loved me, they wouldn't have left," Teddy replied bitterly.

There was plenty Harry could have said to this. He wanted to say what he'd always said in the past, that Remus and Tonks died to make the world a better place for their son. But Teddy had heard this before, many times.

"They wanted nothing more than to live for you, Teddy," Harry said quietly.

"Then why didn't they?" Teddy demanded. Harry wished he had a good answer.

"It was war," he sighed. "And it was bigger than us. The choices we made then… we had to think about more than just ourselves. But trust me, when they chose to fight that day, it was out of love for you."

Teddy was quiet for a long time. When he spoke next, his words were almost lost in the rusling new leaves of the elm.

"What if he didn't want me?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Harry asked.

"Gran… she talks about mum all the time. I feel like I know her, you know? And I know that you tell me stories about dad and stuff, but… Gran just doesn't. She tries, though. I know she didn't approve at first, even though she grew to love him. It was hard for her." Teddy hesitated and Harry gave him some time to come up with the words to say whatever he wanted to say next. "He left mum once, didn't he?"

Harry opened his mouth. Then closed it, surprise hitting him. And sudden, terrible understanding. "How did you hear about that?"

"Gran didn't mean to let it slip," Teddy said hurriedly. "She was just telling a story, when mum was first pregnant with me. I realized that dad wasn't around and mum was living with Gran. I put two and two together and… Why didn't you tell me?"

"Honestly, Ted," Harry sighed. "I was going to, but… it was never the right time. How long has this been bothering you?"

"Since… since Christmas," Teddy admitted. Harry's heart sank a little further into his intestines. _The entire semester? No wonder he exploded._

"I'm so sorry, Teddy. That must have been awful."

"Yeah," Teddy agreed. His shoulders slumped. "It was the wolf thing, wasn't it?"

"It was," Harry answered, constructing his response carefully. "I know it's hard, but you have to look at the situation from your dad's point of view. Werewolves had never really had kids before and he did not know if his condition would be passed to you."

"Would it even matter if it had been?"

"It would to him. He would have seen himself as the guilty one, cursing you to life as an outcast. Your dad was strong enough to resist most of what the rest of the world said about him. But it still wore him down. Words and actions leave scars." Harry sighed. "And the transformation is brutal. Your dad was a rare case. He was bitten as a very small child and miraculously survived his first few transformations. He was afraid you would be killed. Fear and guilt can make a person do things they regret."

"You sound like you've thought that through."

"Yeah, well, I was not so calm when Remus showed up on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place, which was where I was at the time. I kind of… shouted him out of the house. But I get it now. You will too, whenever you fall in love and have your first kid. And he did go back, which is what matters."

Teddy did not respond. But he did get on his broom and fly from the tree branch to the ground. Harry relaxed his neck, which was sore from looking up at his godson. Up close, he was pleased to see some turquoise coloring the roots of Teddy's hair. Teddy lay the broom across the gnarled network of roots and sat next to Harry. Harry offered him the plate of food, which Teddy took and half-heartedly began to eat.

"Your dad was… radiant when he told us you were born. It was the happiest I had ever seen him. He wanted you, Teddy. And it hurt him more than anything to be taken from you so early."

Teddy glanced at him with eyes that were so much like his father's. Harry read the question there.

"I talked to him once, after he died." Teddy's eyes widened. Harry had never told anyone but Ron, Hermione, and Ginny about his encounter with the dead in the forest. "It was a rare magic, but I saw him one last time. He told me as much. And that he hoped that one day you would understand why he died."

"What if I don't understand yet?" Teddy asked. His voice shook a little and in the darkness, Harry could see his face color. Harry wrapped an arm around the teenager's shoulders.

"It's quite a big thing to understand," he said softly. "Give yourself some time."

"I miss them," Teddy whispered.

"The ones we love never truly leave us," Harry said, echoing the words his own godfather had said to him so many years ago. Teddy leaned into his side. They stayed like that for a long time.

And unseen by either of them, a man stood beneath the full moon, his arm around a petite woman with a heart-shaped face. Neither said a word, but watched with peaceful expressions until the night was gone.

* * *

 _In remembrance of all the brave men and women who died in service to their country._


	4. Arthur and Harry

I'm back for Father's Day! This one is actually includes quite a few characters, but it ends with Harry and Mr. Weasley. Also, if you're a returning reader, you'll notice that I changed the chapter titles to include the names of the featured characters. That is mostly for your benefit, since I know that not everybody likes every character in HP like I do. So now, if you want to skip a character that bothers you, you may do so!

Anyway, this chap is a bit sad, but it ends on a light note, so I hope it's more cathartic than anything. Reviews are helpful!

-Cat

* * *

 _IV - Breathe Me Into Tomorrow_

(Arthur and Harry)

 _In the days following the Battle of Hogwarts._

Tomorrow. That one word summarized a concept that just twelve hours ago, Harry numbly would have dismissed as a dream stolen away by mortality. Something that at this moment, he could barely consider, because the idea was so overwhelming-so improbable-that it made him dizzy. Harry was awake in the comfort of his four-poster bed, sunlight filtering crimson through the hangings. His soul was completely his own. And he had tomorrow.

He felt simultaneously light and unbearably heavy. Voldemort was gone. For a shining instant, Harry was free. But life for Harry was never that simple. Because tomorrow…

Tomorrow, whenever it came, meant accepting today.

And today was grief. Today was guilt.

Harry grimaced. Today would be very long.

Day One.

Harry lay in his double state of light and heavy. Ron snored lightly in the next bed. Instead of irritation, Harry felt supported. Ron was here. He came back. Harry did not feel the need to move.

Hermione checked in on them when the sunlight turned deep gold. Her hair was mussed and her face was slightly pink. So was Ron's, which made Harry laugh a clear, deep-bellied laugh he had no idea he was capable of. Then a house-elf arrived with dinner and Harry crashed back into somber silence. When he went back to bed, he made sure he could not see his socks.

Falling asleep was difficult, encumbered by the vague sensation that the room did not have enough air.

Day Two.

He woke to a flowery scent in the gray light of dawn. The way the pale beams haloed her fiery flyaway strands of hair made him breathless in a completely different way. And extremely unsure of himself.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hey," she said back.

He swallowed, very aware of his lack of contact in the last year.

"Ginny, I-"

Ginny effectively silenced Harry with a hand on his arm. Goosebumps… then she said quietly, "There will be a better time for that conversation."

"Right." Feeling both idiotic and relieved, he studied her paler than usual face. "You, er, okay?"

"I will be."

 _Tomorrow_. Which would never come. He steeled himself, guilt like lead in his stomach.

"I'm so sorry, Ginny. About… about Fred." Saying the name out loud was like choking.

"It-It wasn't your fault," Ginny said, fierce despite the tremor in her voice.

"It-"

"Don't, Harry."

His teeth clacked together. She looked like she wanted to say more, but the door to the dormitory opened and Molly was there. Her face was somehow sunken, almost less than before. But she smiled brightly at Harry, proclaimed that he and Ron and Hermione must have been starving themselves, then placed a hearty breakfast in front of him. Harry conversed with her graciously and forced some toast past his throat. But Molly's watchful gaze reminded Harry of Lily's in the forest.

Suddenly the atmosphere was gone again. The food was ashes in his mouth.

They returned to the Burrow that evening. Harry found Hermione crying into Ron's arms. Ron just held her, looking utterly lost.

Day Three.

During the funerals, Harry did his best. He imagined that he was stone, uncracked and smooth. Ron and Hermione stood on either side of him like watchdogs. Neville and Luna took to heading off anyone who tried to get too close. Ginny was split between Harry and the rest of the Weasleys. Arthur Weasley had tears in his eyes.

Fred was in the ground.

George was above the ground. His face was unsettlingly blank.

Harry wished he could tell him that the dead never truly leave us, but the words were stuck. He was afraid if he said them out loud, they would fall to the ground like pebbles, discarded and useless. George would never hear them. Words were not enough.

Today was much too long. He felt Arthur's gaze all the way back to the Burrow.

Ron broke down in the garden when he ran into a spider web. It was Hermione's turn to hold him close. Harry stood by and kept everyone away.

And his lungs were stone.

Day Four.

Harry spent today wondering why the earth kept spinning when so many people had left it. Sirius or Remus might be able to tell him. But they left too.

Harry knew that they were unburdened where they were. So was Fred and everyone else who died. Death was something that Harry understood a little better now. But that did not change the fact that the living felt their loss. And wondered if it was somehow their fault.

Hermione shot him concerned glances at the dinner table.

Day Five.

Hermione must have mentioned something to Ron, because Ron was staring at Harry unabashed the next morning.

"D'you need to talk, mate?" he asked bluntly as soon as Harry made eye contact with him. It was unusually direct of Ron, so Harry had to think of an answer quickly.

"I'm fine, Ron," he settled on. _Idiot. Yes Ron! I need to talk! I just… can't breathe at the moment._ He tamped down the regret. He just needed time.

Ron's ginger eyebrows rose into his hairline. "Course you are."

They dressed in silence. Just as they were about to leave the top floor bedroom, Ron stepped in Harry's way.

"Look, Harry, it doesn't have to be me, but you need to talk to somebody. Something's bothering you."

 _It has to be you, Ron. And Hermione. And Ginny._ "Yeah, okay," Harry shrugged, trying to be casual. Ron's eyes narrowed.

"You haven't cried," he observed shrewdly.

"What does that matter?" Harry asked, nonplussed.

"I dunno. A lot, according to my dad," Ron replied, strangely firm.

"Don't need to," Harry muttered, and brushed past Ron to the dim stairwell.

But he knew he was suffocating.

Day Six.

Vernon Dursley was the last person Harry wanted to think about today. But for some reason, Harry could not get the enormous dark blot on his childhood out of his head. He blamed it on Ron, because he was the one who brought up crying.

Dudley could blubber all he wanted, but for Harry, tears were weakness. Vernon's intimidation had never stopped them, of course. But any tear shed was embarrassing. They needed to be hidden from sight. Because they made those around him either uncomfortable or satisfied that they had gotten to him.

But Ron's words were making Harry doubt himself. What would Sirius or Remus say? What would his dad say?

Harry had no idea.

He did not think he could take the vacuum around his lungs much longer. Today was drowning him.

Day Seven.

"Harry?"

Harry turned from where he sat in the grass. The large field outside of the Weasley's house was abandoned. The stars were twinkling brightly and fireflies flashed in mesmerizing patterns. He could just make out the shape of Mr. Weasley wading through the tall fronds to Harry's newest hiding place.

He sighed. He would need to find a new one tomorrow. Or today. After all it was two in the morning.

"What are you doing out here?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"Er… thinking," Harry replied vaguely. He desperately wished the older man would accept the weak answer and leave him alone. Mr. Weasley did not take the hint and settled down next to Harry. Harry picked a piece of grass and twisted it in his fingers.

"How'd you know I was out here?" he mumbled.

"I raised seven kids, Harry, including F-Fred and George. Call it instinct."

Harry looked at Mr. Weasley incredulously. Mr. Weasley chuckled and said, "Kidding. Molly and I charmed the doors and windows long ago to alert us if someone tried to sneak out. You're not the first of my kids I've tracked down in the tall grass."

Harry did not miss Mr. Weasley's use of the possessive pronoun. His stomach squirmed.

"Mr. Weasley, I-"

"Fred's death was not your fault, Harry. And neither was Remus or Tonks or anyone else who fought that day."

A hard lump formed in Harry's throat. He knew that, logically. They chose to fight. But then why did he feel so _guilty_? He did not trust himself to speak, so he stayed silent.

"Ron says you haven't cried."

"He told you that?" Harry asked hoarsely. Everything hurt, his eyes, his throat, his chest…

"Well… in the way that Ron says things, yes. He's not the best at dealing with emotions," Mr. Weasley shrugged wryly. "But he does know a little bit about moving past things."

The way Mr. Weasley said that made Harry think that he knew more about Ron's actions this year than he let on. He continued gravely. "This is something I tell all my sons, at least once. Real men know when tears are necessary. Whatever that whale of a man told you, it's _not_ a shameful thing."

Harry bit his lip and struggled to nod.

"I… I know your dad would agree with me. Remus and Sirius too," Mr. Weasley whispered into the dark. "You miss them. I know I'm not your father… but I think of you like you're one of my own sons. And I just need you to know... you don't need to be strong all the time."

Harry felt his stone walls crumbling. And once the first tear fell, he could not stop them. A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, warm and smelling of wood polish, oil, and a hint of Molly's perfume. Every dam was washing away. Harry cried until he could barely breathe.

But when the tears finally stopped, he found that he had a space in his chest for air.

Day Eight (Tomorrow).

The heaviness was gone. The ache remained, but Harry found himself looking at the sky instead of the ground while he walked to where Ron and Hermione sat in the garden. Ginny's hand was warm in his.

Mr. Weasley smiled knowingly as they passed his toolshed.

And for the first time, Harry wondered what the next day would bring. Without the weight that was there yesterday, he tentatively allowed himself to hope that it would be good.

* * *

 _To my dad, who gives his every breath away._


	5. Lyall and Remus

I'm alive! I apologize for the long delay between updates. I had a ton of stuff going on (I moved to a new town, grad school started, etc.). But I am still writing to keep myself sane, so that finally developed into something I could post! This prompt was suggested by bpbookworm (yes, I did get your review!). It's a little introspective, a lot of thoughts from Lyall, but there is definitely some dialogue and action as well. Review and tell me what you think!

Also, because I don't have a whole lot of time to edit (again, grad school. And a new novel-length story I'm trying to get off the ground), let me know if there are any spelling/grammar mistakes that I missed. You guys are the best!

-Cat

* * *

 _V - When You are Older_

(Lyall and Remus)

 _March 10, 1960 onwards._

 ** _When you are older, I will live to make you smile._**

But right now every muscle was paralyzed. In all of his life, Lyall had never experienced this kind of fear. It devoured all other feeling, and yet, he knew he would not be able to bear life without it. Because as he looked at his tiny son for the first time, his life became something incandescently radiant. Who knew that he could love another human being this much?

It was ecstasy.

It was breathtaking.

It was terrifying.

"Here's your da," Hope was gently murmuring to the little bundle in her arms. "He loves you so much, Remus."

She smiled up at him, glowing with sweat and exhaustion and elation. Lyall thought that he had never seen anything so beautiful as his wife and child at that moment.

"Hold out your arms, Lyall," she said.

The fear was back tenfold, but Lyall could not stop his arms from reaching irresistibly forward. The bundle was warm, lighter than he expected, precious. The tiny eyes were open, revealing orbs of the indistinct dark color of infants. Perhaps they would be toffee brown like Hope's. Remus' face was wrinkled and red, but he was utterly perfect.

Ahead were days of quiet routine that would grow into a chaotic whirl of childhood and then Remus would be grown up, doing greater things than Lyall could ever dream.

But for now, the steps would be small. And Lyall could only look forward to every moment, every tear, every smile.

 ** _When you are older, I will wave to you from the platform._**

Those wide, astonished eyes turned the color of honey. His hair grew out light fawn brown, his face sweet and honest. He grew far too quickly. Every emotion was a full-body experience. Joy filled him with a rush of energy, released in squeals and kicks and waving hands. Sadness wilted him into cries and curled his tiny limbs into a ball.

And Remus took in everything. As a baby, his hands reached out, wrists turning, fingers grabbing, ready to receive something new. As soon as he could walk, he would spend hours and hours following his mother and father. He would listen and learn and ask little questions. His eyebrows would knit together when he was thinking. Perhaps he would be a researcher like Lyall.

The thought always made Lyall smile.

"Da, story!"

"One more minute, Rem. Da has to finish this last paragraph." His quill scratched against parchment, leaving lines of neat, shining ink in the candlelight. It was a draft of a report detailing the latest survey of dark creatures of Britain. The Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures would need it in the morning.

"Story!"

There was a soft tugging on his jumper. Lyall sighed and looked down at the pleading, amber eyes. That was a mistake. His resolve nearly melted completely.

"Okay, how about thirty seconds? I just need to finish this sentence."

 _Thump!_

Lyall jumped in his seat. The inkwell spilled sideways. Remus giggled and clapped his hands at the miniature hurricane of papers and notes that swirled through the air. Lyall simply stared at the source of the disturbance.

A heavy stack of children's books, topped with _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ , had landed soundly on top of his report. Books that he knew he'd placed on a shelf out of the toddler's reach earlier that day, tired of constantly tripping over them.

His reaction started deep in his belly. Then it gurgled up through his chest and out of his mouth. Before Lyall knew it, he was laughing hysterically along with his son, who was now rolling on the ground with delight. That had to be a record. Remus was barely three, and yet the control of his accidental magic was spectacular.

"Okay, okay," Lyall gasped, struggling to control the aftershocks of chortles. "Okay, storytime. We need to teach you to read, Rem. For both our sakes."

The report stayed where it was, soaked and sodden with ink. But compared to the brilliance of his son's future, a few late hours were of little consequence.

 ** _When you are older, I will show you the world._**

Remus clutched Lyall's head tightly with both hands. Lyall could not see his face, but he could imagine that his eyes were probably the size of saucers. From his father's tall shoulders, he could see all the way up and down Diagon Alley. The streets were packed with people of all shapes and sizes, wearing a dazzling technicolor combination of robes and hats. The crowd roared with living. There were shouts of old friends greeting each other. Banter, bickering, and bartering. Small children clutched the hands of parents. Hogwarts-aged children dashed between legs and stared into shop windows stocked with broomsticks, magical pranks, and treats.

Every time Remus spun to look at something, his hands pulled on Lyall's head, but he did not mind. He continued easily towards their destination.

"Lyall! Absolutely wonderful to see you, old chap!" exclaimed Florean Fortescue as they approached the ice cream shop. "And who is this unusually tall lad?"

Florean peered up at Remus with inquiring blue eyes.

"I'm Remus," Remus giggled.

"And how old are you?"

"Four." A hand released Lyall to carefully hold out four fingers.

"I don't think I've ever seen a four-year-old quite as tall as you," said Florean with a serious face. He winked at Lyall, who chuckled.

"Da is holding me up, silly," Remus exclaimed cheerfully. He patted Lyall's head enthusiastically.

"Remus, this is Mr. Fortescue," Lyall introduced the ice cream shop owner.

"Mr. Fort-esk-ew," Remus enunciated.

"Close enough," laughed Florean. "What can I get for the two of you?"

"Two double fudge cones, please," Lyall replied. "The one with the caramel swirl."

"Of course, of course," Florean extolled, wiping his hands on his apron. "How could I ever forget?"

Lyall lowered Remus to the ground. In the late August heat, the ice cream was sticky and delicious. By the time they were finished, Remus was covered in melted chocolate and grinning with delight.

"I think we'll have to get you cleaned up before Flourish and Blotts, my friend," Lyall said. Remus held out his little hands and Lyall siphoned the sugary goo off with his wand. By now, Remus was practically vibrating with excitement.

"Will they have books I like?"

"Oh, definitely." He lifted Remus back onto his shoulders.

"Books about magic?"

"Hundreds of them."

"Can we read them all?" Remus asked innocently.

"Er... I don't know..." Lyall replied, navigating around a group of loudly gossiping witches.

"I want to read them all."

"That would take a very long time," Lyall cautioned.

"We can come here every day!"

Lyall chuckled but did not answer, not wanting to ruin Remus' good mood and faulty logic. Besides, reading their way through Flourish and Blotts did not sound like a bad idea. And suddenly he was planning it, excursions to bookstores, exploring the world through the pages. It sounded wonderful.

 ** _When you are older, I will have to tell you that the world is not always good._**

"Werewolves are soulless, evil, deserving nothing but death."

They had not listened. His own words replayed themselves over and over in that dark hallway of polished stone. The flames in his stomach cooled, hardened into obsidian bitterness. The committee would regret listening to the ragged man's lies, would regret closing their ears to Lyall's advice.

Calming himself with breaths through his nose, he waited. Then the closed door opened.

The werewolf walked out, no shackles on his hands. Lyall's revulsion curdled in his gut. The werewolf was clearly feral, clothed in stinking, ragged clothing. He wrung his hands in false show of gratitude for the committee exiting behind him. He expressed shock once more at the existence of magic. He did everything correctly.

But as he turned to leave, the dark gaze flicked towards Lyall. Their eyes met for a long moment. And Lyall could see it, the monster just under the surface. Then Greyback's chapped lips pulled into a rotting, yellow grin and he disappeared into the crowd.

 _ **When you are older-** _

He was just a child.

Lyall sighed and smoothed the worn quilt made by Hope's mother. The world was getting darker, sickened by the spread of the new Dark Lord's influence. The incident yesterday was just a small thing, still itching under his skin. But it was part of something greater, something that Lyall was beginning to think was too big to control. Lyall could not bring that home to his wife and child. When Hope had asked, he just said, "Rough case, love. But tomorrow is a new day."

It was tomorrow, and Lyall did not feel new. He felt much, much older. The work day was tedious and long, filling out reports and speaking to more committees and doing his duty as an expert witness in hearings.

He stroked Remus' soft, fawn hair. He had already been asleep when Lyall returned home, but woke just enough to mumble, "Night, da."

His breathing evened out again to a soothing rhythm. Lyall leaned over and kissed his forehead, then left the room awash in the light of a rising moon.

 ** _When you are-_**

Screaming.

Time moved like molasses. Time moved like lightening.

And Lyall would never forget.

He would not forget sprinting up the stairs.

He would not forget bursting through the door.

The sight of the monster on top of his son.

The blood.

They lashed with sharp clarity in his mind like a scourge. The rest became a blur of indistinct reality, shouting, curses, and a long, piercing howl.

"Oh god, Lyall, Lyall please!"

Hope was frantic, her pale hands pressing a sheet to Remus shoulder. Remus was the color gray. The moon was bone. And the blood was deep crimson.

He was too light when Lyall scooped him into his arms. His head lolled. Warm wetness soaked Lyall's jumper as he ran to the floo. Too much blood.

In all of his life, Lyall had never experienced this kind of fear.

And time, as he knew it, was disintegrating.

 ** _When you-_**

" _-are soulless, evil, deserving nothing but death."_

Lyall was walking on a world without gravity. He never knew how much he relied on gravity. But it had vanished, taking with it the atmosphere, the support, the surety. He stepped off the edge of the world and was careening through dark and unknown space.

And he had taken Remus with him. He could barely see him, so small in the hospital bed, milk-white against the sheets. A stain of blood was growing again on the bandages. Hope clutched the tiny hand, but Lyall could not move. His own condemnation was ringing in his ears.

"How would you like to proceed?" the healer asked. His voice was sterile, unfeeling.

"W-what do you mean?" Lyall's throat felt like sand.

"Death would be more merciful in his case"- _soulless_ \- "He won't have friends"- _evil_ \- "His quality of life will be nothing. He might even kill himself next moon. This way it will be quick and painless, he won't feel anything. "

 _Deserving nothing but death._

Dissonance. Love and hate. And the power of the first was unmatched. The old Lyall was dead, sacrificed on an altar of his own making. The one bearing the knife was too horrified at his own crime to notice.

"Who the hell do you think you are?!" he hissed when he finally found his ability to speak. His voice rose, uncontrolled. "This is my SON! I want a new healer, _now_!"

The healer regarded him placidly. "If you are refusing to terminate it, there is nothing more we can do here," he said in a crisp, unaffected tone. He checked something on his clipboard, then turned to leave the room. "Discharge papers will be sent shortly, along with instructions on how to care for the wound."

Hope and Lyall were left in shocked silence.

The silence stretched.

"Lyall?" Hope said softly. "Lyall, it will be alright."

Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her lower lip trembled. But she was holding herself taller than any non-magical person rightly should after this.

"No, it won't," he said in a strangled whisper. "Nothing is going to be the same." He lowered himself on the other side of the bed. Under Remus' transparent skin he could see purple veins, running with blood poisoned by the wolf.

"He c-can live with this, Lyall," she murmured. A tear was slipping down her face. "Can you?"

The question rang in the white room. Resonated against the magnitude of Lyall's mistake. It was as if she knew. She needed to know. He opened his mouth, trying to force words past the excruciating guilt. But before he could, a medi-witch entered, bearing a stained envelope.

"This was delivered for you at the mail room by owl."

She was gone as quickly as she came. Lyall slit the pasted flap with numb fingers. He noticed that his son's blood was still flecked and dried under his fingernails. He felt ill as he read the untidy scrawl.

 _What does your son deserve now, Lupin?_

It was unsigned. Lyall crumbled the letter in his fist. Not this. No one deserved this.

"I did something, Hope. And I-" He swallowed. "I will never forgive myself."

 ** _When-_**

The wolf broke his boy the first time. And it would every time after that, little by little.

"Da, don't leave, please, please stay," Remus begged. His hands were clammy and cold and his face bloodless. He was just a child. He barely understood what would happen next.

"I'm so sorry, Rem," Lyall whispered brokenly. "I have to go."

He had reinforced the window in the new bedroom. There were unbreakable charms on the walls, the door, the glass. The furniture had been removed for the night. It was secure. It was safe. But not for Remus.

He trembled, helpless and alone in the middle of the room.

"Please," he sobbed. " _Please._ "

Every instinct in Lyall screamed at him to stay with him, to hold his child and protect him from the moon. But there was nothing he could do.

"I'm sorry," he croaked. "I love you, Remus, okay? Mum and I love you and we'll be here in the morning."

The door closed, ripping Lyall in two pieces. Hope was in the shadows, watching with a tight expression. The strain between them was an impassable wall tonight. He leaned against the door and slid to the floor, defeated.

There were only seconds before it began.

And every glacial moment after that Lyall could not take the pain for his son was agony.

 _ **When you are older… I will make this right. I promise.** _

Time was measured by moons.

The past was how many he endured.

The future, how many were left.

Remus was irrevocably changed. Lyall could hear it in his solid silence. He learned to read quickly, but it was out of desperation. Books were no longer an adventure. They were an escape. He wrapped himself in the pages as if they were armor to keep the rest of the world out.

They did not go to Diagon Alley again. Remus would never go to Hogwarts. When Lyall gently explained this, Remus just listened in silence. Another loss to grieve.

"I'll teach you magic, Remus. It will be fun, just you and me, like when you and mum do maths." He forced himself to sound enthusiastic. Remus smiled at him graciously, but they both knew that nothing would ever compare to the life lost.

And that was the shattered heart of it all.

Lyall could not give Remus the world, could not send him undaunted in the future. He could not draw a genuine smile.

He could not even tell him the truth.

This was on him.

Hope had forgiven him, but he did not want absolution. He wanted time to be undone, every moon somehow forced back into the box. His ugly, prejudiced words unsaid. He had failed as a father, a protector. Even now, he was helpless, locking his son away in a room to face the demon alone.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He searched for a cure. Endlessly, he read and wrote letters and tore through materials and essays and reports. And the deeper he buried himself in looking and looking, the more he could convince himself it was possible. Perhaps it bordered on obsession, but that did not matter. He could make this right.

 ** _This I promise you._**

* * *

 _To the parents of children living with illness or disability. For everything they sacrifice._


End file.
